Waiting for Godot by cloistering

Waiting for Godot by cloistering

On most days, I stare at her pictures, wondering what it’s like to be her.

I try to emulate the happiness that burst out of her chest when she walked down the streets of London, waiting for Godot, searching for that pint she would gladly sip at the corners of her lips while smiling erratically, nodding enthusiastically to every Pinter reference blasted across her way, in dashes and ellipses.

I try to encapsulate the curiosity that filled the girth of her mind as she scanned pages upon pages of dust-covered literature, as she traced with her fingertips,

the cupids and the monks decorating this goliardic poetry — and I wonder, with intensity, how many times she’s read The Divine Comedy, with her legs curled under her, her blonde hair forming an illusionary halo that floats in perpetuity, for she loves to chase the sun when she reads.

Chase – may not be a good verb for someone so sedentary, as she was so pedantically described. But I like to see her as vibrant, as a one-woman wonder made of superheroes all DC-like, the strength of Supergirl with the graciousness of Selina Kyle, combined with the sarcastic humour of Amaya, topped with girl-next-door realism and you’ve got the perfect woman. Although that could just be the wishful thinking in me.

On most days, I sit back and think about what it’s like to be loved and adored as much as she was, that a wordplay on her name became the one signifying, all-encompassing, all-encapsulating word to describe the entire life of one person: marzipan (don’t think I didn’t catch that). I wonder if she will ever know about my existence, who pines for her life, who longs for the normalcy and intelligence she emanates.

Although I guess, as most of her admirers will go, we will always remain unnoticed, and prefer to be unknown.


I could:

Inspiration by hesitation

I could explain to her why I left, and pepper her with apologies. I could write a longer reply, in an attempt to jot down what I thought happened, in a cogent, logical form, with a clear beginning and an even clearer end.

Or I could insert answers to where there are none, and form conclusions to the things we never addressed. I could start by saying, “Loving you came with a huge responsibility, something I couldn’t handle at the time, and I think I knew it.” Something that would reduce me, and empower her. I could give reasoning to my actions, even though I know, deeply, that my actions didn’t have meaning, nor thought, that I had lost control over time, and words: all that existed during those days, was space, filled to the brim with emptiness, overflowing with mindlessness.

Or I could tell her I’m okay, that I have a job now, and that I moved to Toronto. I can ask her what she’s up to, and maybe we can meet up for coffee sometime. End it nicely, neatly, as civil as it could possibly be.

Or I could do nothing, because she didn’t warrant a reply, and I wouldn’t want to overwrite.

Or I could–

Epiphanies, poetry

Graveyard of Disenchanted Lovers and Friends

'Graffitti Lane' in Melbourne, Australia.

‘Graffitti Lane’ in Melbourne, Australia.

The sun is setting on top of an abandoned, industrial wasteland, where everything is littered with rubble and rolling tumbleweeds made of scrap paper and metal, spent needles adorning the ground like single, white tulips.

In the centre of which are leather-bound chairs in a semi-circle, where they sit, 10 colourless faces facing west.

The daughter of Oz starts, the self-proclaimed recipient of the most vile contempt, spite bleeding out of her eyes: “She loved me the most, She said,” her voice bouncing off the walls of apocalyptic nothingness, “and promised, more than once, that She won’t leave.”

Heads turned towards the one most spurned, relating to her words as if it was them who spoke, except she was the only one who found voice amidst adversity, who found courage among cowardice. “She crafted words at 160 a minute. She dissected my past and resurrected my fears, only  to bury it in denial and false epiphanies. She put meaning in otherwise meaningless encounters, significance in the most mundane, and continuously molded me into a state of perpetual empty promises and white lies.

I hid myself away from Her toxic metaphors and double entendre–but She kept finding me, despite aliases and pseudonyms. I feel hunted, I feel preyed on.” She looked at them, that wide smile permanently etched out of her face with a carving knife–a description She once gave her; one that she removed with the strength and glory of a character who refused to take her assassination well.

“She wants me to forgive her.”

They nod, downcast eyes unified.

“Except how do you forgive someone you never really knew?”

The greatest sin voiced out in the middle of this imaginary land, where it found realism and solidity. The Greatest Sin began to grew legs until it stood on all four, collecting downcast eyes with its paw and transfiguring itself with each new perspective gained, with each old sight lost.

They sit, perennially frozen into characters She once knew, once embodied now turned fiction, harbouring secrets once cogent now myth, sun forever setting in the west,  bringing with it the possibilities She once saw in them, now just an illusion that strengthens Her monstrous regret, as She walks away from the graveyard She created of disenchanted lovers and friends.